


quoting shakespeare

by thecloisters (sonicraptors)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, jfc it's been so long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:26:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicraptors/pseuds/thecloisters
Summary: Lord knows that if she could go back in time and deny his invitation, she'd do it in a heartbeat. Maybe then, she wouldn't be standing there, lovingly staring into the eyes of a man sheloathed.





	1. new tenant

 

8:59 AM. 8:59 AM, and Clara hadn’t gotten an ounce of sleep.

The new neighbor was moving in, and she knew they were moving in because she could hear people opening and closing the trunk of a storage truck that had been parked outside of her flat for three whole hours and _who has that many boxes anyway?_ She knew she had to be up any second to start getting ready for work, but she squinted over to the alarm clock on her bed stand, willing it to go off and mark the official end of her torture, and yet threatening it not to, granting her a few more precious moments of sleep.

But it did.

“No. _No._ Damn you!” Clara yelled.

“Hey, it’s just doing it’s job.” Her flatmate, Amy, peeked her head around Clara’s door. Her presence smelled of maple oatmeal and bacon, and Clara hoped this meant she didn’t have to waste time making breakfast later.

“I'm not mad at the clock.” She sighed, tossing her pillow towards the window in frustration, where the moving people continued ruining her morning. “I’m mad at those inconsiderate assholes outside.

She eyed her visitor up and down.

“And you.”

“Me?” Amy scoffed. “What have I got to do with them?”

“Nobody should wake up as early as you do and still look so good.”

Amy snorted, backing out of Clara’s room to tend to the whistling kettle on the stove. But Clara was right; As often as she tries to pass herself off as a homely person, one couldn’t help but notice how very little put a damper on Amy’s beauty--to include waking up every morning at the most sinful hours of dawn to drive her boyfriend to work (“I’m a doctor!” He’d protest, “I can’t kill the planet with exhaust fumes if I want to keep saving people.” “Oh, get a life.” Amy would always retort).

Clara threw off her heavy comforter, wincing at the sudden gust of cold air that hit her bare legs. Though it was the middle of November, they had to keep the flat cold to discourage the hordes of spiders that sought refuge from the rain from doing so in their home. Clara knew it was nothing but an old wives’ tale--the spiders were going to come in, regardless of the temperature. But Amy was having none of it, and the only compromise was more blankets and a near-survivalist sized supply of hot chocolate.

“Do you want to meet the new tenant later?” Amy yelled from down the hall as Clara made her way into the bathroom to shower. _Do I want to meet the new guy? Why? So I can yell at him for depriving me of sleep?_ She wanted to reply, opting instead for silence and shutting the door behind her.

Amy knocked.

“Yes?”

“Did you hear me, I asked if-”

“Oh,” Clara scoffed, removing her tank top, “I heard you.”

“And?”

“No.”

“You can’t stay mad at him forever."

“Yes, I can.”

-

“And remember kids, we have a book discussion tomorrow! If you don’t bring your copy, you might as well stay home. Yes, I’m talking to you, Malcolm.”

The last period was always the hardest, when Clara seemingly had to deal with the most terrible students at Coal Hill. She knew it was a common thing for kids to act their worse around new teachers, to test the boundaries, to see what they’re “made off”. But by _God,_ if someone had told her how treacherous teenagers really were, she would’ve settled as a preschool tutor in a heartbeat. By the time last period rolled around, Clara was already prepared to engulf herself in her soft, 800-count sheets. But a peaceful classroom, especially of her own, was truly a sight to behold.

Soaking up her well-earned peace, she began searching through her desk to find the blackboard eraser.

“Clara!”

_Damn it._

She turned to face her interloper, a young man of average stature and impressive physique--appropriate for a former soldier. It was Danny Pink, a Maths teacher from across the building who acted as sort of a mentor when she’d first started out at Coal Hill, but she has never had many encounters with him since then, save for their shared break time.

“Danny, how have you been?” Though she was less enthused, she could excuse the disruption.

He leaned against the door, his hand fidgeting with his tie, “I’ve been fine. You?”

“Likewise.

Silence.

“So, um...your birthday. That’s a week from now, yes?”

Clara began arranging her chalk in their respective boxes.

“Yes, the 23rd.”

“Have any plans?”

 _What do you think?_ She thought.

“Nothing permanent,” Clara smiled, comparing the lengths of the white chalk and tossing the shorter one away. “Maybe a night out drinking with my friend.”

“Oh…” Danny replied sheepishly. “Well, if you want...or if I could...”

“Are you inviting yourself to my party?” Clara pestered the embarrassed, blushing man, who was very obviously having a hard time spitting it out. Ever since Clara arrived, he’d been searching for the right moment to ask her out--on a _date_ \--and here he was, fucking it up.

“No! I don’t have to come or rather I don’t even want to go I mean I have so many papers to grade and we just took a test and I know the kids will want to know how they did and well-”

She gathered the chalk boxes and slid them into a drawer on her desk. Danny watched on, nervously, every passing moment bearing more and more of a reason as to why he should’ve just gone straight home.

His forehead glistened with sweat, much to Clara’s entertainment. She wanted to revel in the sight for a bit longer (he’s amusing when he’s nervous), but however mischievous Clara could be, she wasn’t a jerk.

“Fine. We’ll all be at Brádaigh’s, right outside of Hackney, at 10.”

“10...PM?”

“Do you drink in the morning, Danny?”

He opened his mouth to thank her, but was so overcome with relief that the words escaped him. Grinning graciously, he departed. Clara exhaled, thankful that he hadn’t asked for anything _private_ like she had feared. Attractive? Boy, was he. But besides his looks, she didn’t see how they were compatible in the slightest. He couldn’t interest her in conversation about factoring quadrilaterals and she doubted he’d be able to keep up in a discussion regarding the works of Charles Dickens.

And two awkward people do not make for a very satisfying, or comfortable, date

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the caller ID revealing Amy’s number.

“Hello?” Clara answered, gathering up her belongings to head home.

“He’s hot!”

She paused, “Excuse me?”

“The man who just moved in! He’s hot!” She emitted a delighted squeal. “Yikes. Am I allowed to do that? Since I’m dating Rory, and all.”

Clara huffed, “Goodbye, Amy.”

“No, wait, he’s not like ‘footballer in the Manchester United’ hot, he’s a mature hot, like…’Come into my office so we can talk about your grades, young lady’ hot.”

She couldn’t believe she was listening to all of this.

“He wants us to come over tonight, as a sort of welcoming gesture.”

“And you said we could? You know tonight’s a school night, Amelia.”

“I know, I know, but he made it seem like this was the only day he had available.” Amy’s voice grew quiet, fully aware of her tendency to include others in plans they don’t want to do and her inability to stop.

Clara remained mute on the other end, ultimately contemplating the proposal. She had no desire to meet the stranger, especially since she was none the wiser about her _other_ neighbors, but if anything else this could just be a nice opportunity to express her irritation of the noise he caused this morning and leave it at that.

Starting the engine of her bike, she decided she was in.

-

Even through the heavy wooden door, the intense smell of cologne greeted her before he did.

“Welcome, excuse the mess, I’ve just moved in.”

He practically towered over Clara--though with her petite stature, it wasn’t all that much of an accomplishment. Amy wasn’t wrong, he was quite handsome, but his expression seemed...worrisome. Preoccupied. He was frowning, and judging by the lines along his mouth, this was something he did often.

He addressed her flatmate first, who came dressed as if they were out for Italian, with her curly auburn locks done up in an updo Clara had only seen when she went out with Rory. _Was she_ flirting _with this man_? Clara asked herself, slightly intrigued but also slightly disconcerted.

She was so focused on admiring Amy’s subtle boldness, in fact, that she hadn’t noticed the man had turned his attention to her.

“And you?” He repeated. Amy was staring at Clara now, urging her to respond.

“Uh-” Clara stuttered. “Clara. Clara Oswald.” She reached out her hand.

“I don’t do handshakes, sorry.”

“I see.” She muttered, retracting her hand carefully.

The stranger motioned towards a set of chairs in the middle of the room, the only other furniture--besides a telly set and coffee table--that wasn’t either wrapped up or boxed away. As the girls settled into his living room, he went off into the kitchen to fetch three glasses and a large bottle of red wine.

“I don’t believe you ever told us your name.” Amy called over. Clara inhaled sharply; what kind of person doesn’t like handshakes, gives guests he’s only just met alcohol, and doesn’t even tell them his _name?_

Clara glanced at the door.

“My apologies.” He said, his back facing the girls as he poured a sizable amount of wine into each glass. “It’s Doctor.”

Amy’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Doctor who?”

“It’s just Doctor.”

The girls exchanged incredulous looks.

He returned, handing them each a glass. Amy accepted hers wholeheartedly, downing a large sip almost instantly. Clara received it, but placed hers on the coffee table. Even this much wine was enough to get her vulnerably drunk, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d end up as another “trusting” woman murdered on the nightly news.

“So, Doctor,” Clara’s eyes darted around the room, spotting what looked to be an old painting in the corner. “Do you collect art?”

The Doctor glimpsed at the painting before replying, “No.”

 _Great job, Clara._ She sighed.

Amy set her glass back down. “Where are you from, Doctor?”

“Germany.” The Doctor rested his own beside hers.

“Really?” Clara asked, her voice tinged with bemusement. “You can’t be serious. You sound so Scottish.”

“And you sound so annoying.”  

Amy stifled a laugh. She loved seeing Clara flustered.

The Doctor took another sip of wine. “I’m joking.”

Clara forced a sardonic chuckle.

“And what brought you here to London?” Amy inquired, subconsciously reaching up to smooth the back of her hair.

“I came to teach.”

Clara’s eyes widened.

“Clara’s a teacher, too! At Coal Hill High School.” Amy placed her arm around Clara’s shoulder.

The Doctor snickered in a frothy tone that betrayed his serious composure, “As will I. Isn’t life strange?”

Clara nodded. _Fuck me_.

The evening passed like this--with Amy and the Doctor hitting it off almost instantly, while he incessantly turned Clara’s comments into a joke at her expense. Her lack of control was bad enough, but she had never dealt with agitation of this scale before. _What have I done to this man_ , she wondered up until the moment she and Amy departed, when she instinctively extended her hand to the Doctor and was reminded up of his adversity to physical contact.

The first thing Clara did once she and Amy returned to their flat was stuff her face against a throw pillow and let out a well overdue scream. Amy rubbed her back, a gesture of faux-comfort (and much to Clara’s chagrin) before heading to her room for the night. Once alone, Clara slumped defeated onto the futon, mentally and physically exhausted to the point where if she didn’t sleep immediately, she might’ve dropped dead.

Four knocks fell upon the front door.

Clara groaned.

It was the Doctor.

“I forgot,” He paused, his eyes looking past Clara and into the flat, a subtle hint of judgement evident in his eyes as he observed their fairly generic decor. “You are always welcome to come back and visit.”

Before Clara could respond, he left.

She shut the door and screamed again.

  



	2. the art of making up

Though she repeatedly told herself to let the previous night go, that she was a grown woman and too mature to let some old man she’d never met before get into her head, Clara’s thoughts never strayed far from the Doctor. Relaxing seemed like a far-fetched idea in and of itself, even as she sat in the teachers’ office.

_ He makes the utmost ruckus at the crack of dawn. He’s arrogant. He gets a rise out of making me look like a fool. He calls himself “Doctor” but won’t tell me of  _ what _.  _

Well, she could count her grievances on one hand, but that was more than enough. 

That morning, Amy decided to milk Clara’s horrific first impression with the Doctor for all of it’s worth. She suggested stopping by his flat again, to thank him for his hospitality. Or maybe, bringing him a gift basket full of things that men like, such as deodorant. And shop tools. And shampoo that smells like the rainforest. Clara quickly reminded Amy that they technically lived in her home and that she could have all of Amy’s things out on the street faster than she could drive her “weirdo boyfriend” to the hospital--that shut Amy up instantly. 

“Miss Oswald! Just who I wanted to see.” The Headmistress entered the room, spinning the umbrella she carried with her at all times around her index fingers, akin to a gothic-Mary Poppins. 

“Headmistress,” Clara fumbled around with her papers, trying to make it look as if she had spent the morning busying herself with school work and not petty frustrations.

The Headmistress sat down in the chair adjacent to Clara, “Headmistress was my  _ father _ .” She briefly mused in her own cleverness, unaware that she had pulled this line on Clara before. Numerous times. “Please, call me Missy!” 

“With all due respect, ma’am, I’m still not going to call you that.”

Missy shrugged. It was worth a shot.

“Have you come on business?” Clara urged on the older woman, who--as quickly as she’d arrived--had taken to combing her Byzantium overcoat for lint and seemingly forgotten why she even came in the first place. 

“Business? Yes, business. No, not business. I came to ask you a favor, of course. I don’t consider that business.” 

Missy rummaged through her purse and pulled out a tube of lipstick, reapplying it to what was already a perfect layer before continuing, “You know how that Mrs. Henson is retiring next month?”

“I was informed.”

Missy leaned in closer, “You’re new, yes, but hardly less responsible than the others around here. Would you be willing to help a new...er teacher for a few weeks? During your last periods. Let him accompany you to class, observe, at least until Henson leaves.”

Clara groaned heavily, remembering the previous times Missy requested her help, though she was thankful that this time did not include staking out in the girls' restroom to catch the students who smuggled in cigarettes during the lunch breaks. She couldn’t say no, either--as unconventional as Missy was, she had a charm that made you care for her even when you didn’t want to. But Clara wasn’t ready to take on the additional challenge of babysitting an adult as well as 25 unruly students. 

“And before you say no,” Missy interjected, sensing the growing opposition evident in Clara’s eyes, “Let me remind you that you won’t be paid extra for this. It’ll be more of a learning experience for the both of you!”

She paused.

“Come to think of it, that wasn’t a very strong persuasion. Let me try again.”

“Ma’am, I-” 

She noticed him standing at the doorway, reprimanding two children for chasing each other in the halls. If this had been any other setting, Clara would’ve thought him to be one of those men who attempt to live out their dreams of being a carefree bachelor but have long since expired from their youthful ambitions. Notably, he wore a dress suit jacket over a sweater and dark jeans, unkempt and unprofessional and yet-- _ somehow _ \--as intimidating as he was in his flat. 

Clara slowly inched herself towards the back of the room, but he noticed her long before she had. 

“Miss Clara Oswald from number 63. Thought I’d run into you here, but didn’t think it’d be so soon!” The Doctor approached her, with the scent of shampoo that smelled like the rainforest. 

“Doctor…” She looked up to his face, giving him the strongest look of surprise she could muster. 

Clara was practically kicking herself.  _ Come on, then. You can either redeem your dignity or you can stop staring at him like a complete idiot.  _

“If it isn’t my favorite uh...German.”

_ No no no no shut up now. _

To Clara’s (immense) relief, the Doctor seemingly shrugged off her panicked compliment, instead choosing to pull up a seat in between her and Missy. 

He leaned over the table, “I must apologize the way I came off. Let it be known that I am against banter, but you quite instantly struck me as a woman of wit. Had I known my remarks would  _ embarrass _ you-”

“Embarrassed? Me? Not at all!” Clara assured, in a tone that implied their rendezvous was, indeed, embarrassing. 

Missy--who, up until then had been watching the two interact with equal parts confusion and intrigue--straightened up in her chair the best she could. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“Missy!” The Doctor’s eyebrows rose, allowing them to take up even more room on his face. “I hardly realized you were here. Did you lose weight?”

Missy cackled, “You flatter me!” 

Clara rose her hand, interrupting them before her face could fully take on the color of a ripe apple. She motioned to Missy, “Actually, the  _ Headmistress  _ and I were discussing some very important matters if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I wouldn’t mind at all.” The Doctor mimed zipping up his mouth and folded his hands in his lap, waiting for them to continue. 

“No, no, I didn’t mean-” Clara hesitated, decided it was best to leave it, and returned to Missy once more, “About your offer, I would love to do it. Just send him down to me once he’s ready.” 

Admittedly, she still wasn’t sure whether she was truly up for the job, but she was willing to do anything to get away and be alone.

Missy clapped with delight as if she’d been anticipating this moment, “Well, it seems you both know each other already! That saves me at least 5 minutes.”

Clara glared at Missy skeptically; she couldn’t possibly mean what Clara thought she meant. There was no way. Sure, the Doctor was a new teacher, a Science teacher, the same as Mrs. Henson, who was subject to retire soon. But no, this had to be a coincidence. 

“Oh!” The Doctor pointed a slender finger at Clara, “Am I your shadow now?”

She wanted to nod, but the shock at her own stupidity prohibited any type of movement, lest she end up on the floor or over someone’s shoe. As Missy and the Doctor chatted the rest of the morning away, Clara considered her options: 

She could just not show up, but she’s the  _ teacher _ , and her kids had no qualms with setting fire to the school on a whim. She could refuse, and risk ending up on Missy’s ever-expanding “bad side”. The mere thought of having to take up more of Missy’s odd jobs sent a shiver up her spine. All else failing, she could always just run away and take up a bar waitress job in Ireland.

The screech of the Doctor’s chair as he stood to leave interrupted her thoughts, and if she was to do something, it had to be fast. 

“Well, if that’s everything?” He looked alternatively between the two women, each shaking their head, having nothing new to add, or to protest. Flashing them each a toothy grin, he left. 

The bell rung, and Clara released a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. 

-

Becoming an English teacher wasn’t Clara’s first career choice, but the only thing that rivaled her appreciation for traveling and experiencing the world was her love for literature. 

Her mother kept a vast library despite the limited room in their small home, and from the moment Clara was born, time never passed in which her parents weren’t reading to the small, easily intrigued child. There was never a sight more welcoming than a book worn out and frayed from constant page turning, yet never a scent more comforting than a book freshly opened. As life brought its own hardships--changing schools, the loss of a beloved pet--she found great solace in returning again to the world she knew, enclosed and bound and stored on her bookshelf for safe keeping. She would spend countless afternoons engulfed in the choppy waves alongside Ishmael or tangled in the complicated love life of Anna and Alexei that her father swore she could read before she could open her eyes. 

Anyone with as strong of a passion for reading as she had would have reveled in the opportunity to spread this joy to others. But as Clara stood, practically knee-deep in crumpled notebook paper scribbling on the black board as her chaotic seventh-period class fussed on behind her, she would have rather been anywhere else.

“What makes a novel a ‘classic’?” She asked, in the off chance that someone was listening. Someone made a flatulence sound into their hands. The room erupted with laughter. 

“Very funny,” Clara spoke between her teeth, careful not to split the chalk in her hand but gripping it tightly nonetheless, “But that’s not quite it.”

The class had only just begun and she was already contemplating jumping out the window if it weren’t so chilly outside. As she waited for the students to take their seats, they instead opted to continue in their impromptu tradition of treating her period as a second lunch break. Her passive throat clearing and futile calls to attention were drowned out by the noises of delight her students made to see her so exasperated, and it only worsened with every attempt she made to regain the authority she never had in the first place. 

_ You’re 28 years old, Clara. If you can’t stick up for yourself in front of a bunch of teenagers, you might as well move back in with Dad. _

A wet piece of paper nicked her cheek.

_ Gross. _

She had tried everything, threats she couldn’t fulfill, punishments that held very little substance. Other teachers approached her to offer their own methods and advice, but she refused each one in a vain exertion to protect her pride, assuring herself more than anyone that she would break through to them if it took all of the willpower she had left. 

Clara eyed the clock above the window in the back, its minute hand sliding across the face at a painstakingly slow pace with the hour hand inching up close behind. She couldn’t tell whether she had truly been standing there, attempting to calm this bull run, for thirty minutes or all of eternity and then after that. Every new wrinkle and gray hair she found made reality feel more like the latter.

The door creaked on its hinges, a soft intrusion that barely penetrated the excited bustling, but the class promptly fell silent. Anyone observing would’ve thought an armed robber had just announced their presence, but Clara soon found herself face-to-face with her long forgotten charge.

He breezed past her without greeting, his odd behavior raising more questions than Clara was willing to subject herself to answer. His velvet coat flapped with his quickened step as he continued on until he reached an empty seat in the very back against the central window. It became obvious that he was well onto a strange pursuit in remaining invisible, blending in, but Clara hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at him until his deep-set blue eyes rose to meet hers. 

_ Damn it.  _ She tensed, splitting the chalk and expelling white dust from the spaces between her fingers. Her students’ curious stares thickened the atmosphere of the room and Clara struggled to speak.

“Um...kids…” She coughed. “This is--well, this is the Doctor. He’ll be staying with us for some time.”

“Doctor who?”

“It’s just the Doctor, I’ve been told.”

“Doctor of what?”

“I’d like to know as well,” Clara muttered under her breath.

She carefully transitioned back into her lesson as the sideshow ended. To her surprise, the students who once couldn’t give more of a prized rat’s ass about the English language than Afrikaans participated more than they had in last year, though she could tell this was probably because they remained on guard of the mysterious man who sat in silence. 

Relative silence.

“Who here knows the author of Great Expectations.” Clara leaned against her podium, nestling the textbook in the crook of her elbow. A low murmur washed through the room, but nobody volunteered their answers.

“I do.” Offered a voice, familiar only to Clara. 

She chuckled, uneasy, “That’s wonderful, Doctor, but I was really asking the students.”

The Doctor clicked his tongue before replying, “How would they know him? He died centuries before any of these toddlers could use a potty.” 

The class laughed.

“Charlie and I, now, we go  _ way _ back. He taught me how to play cards, though I always suspected he was cheating me. I’ve lost many a dime to that bastard.” 

The Doctor continued recounting his antics with Dickens, motivated by the kids’ reactions, but never quite catching on to the petty intent behind them. Clara stood helplessly in front of the chalkboard, observing the spectacle that stole the students’ from her control, something she knew she was never going to regain if she wanted to keep her dignity. He spoke with wide arm gestures, motioning the pranks he’d pull on the late author and retold the nasty publications he’d write in retaliation, with full and unforgiving detail. She desperately tried to regain control of her class, but to no avail. They played along with the Doctor’s antics, far more interested in their newfound free period than whatever he was saying. Clara knew this was a bad idea; she knew from the moment he walked in, arrogant, leaving her to do the explaining. She knew from the grunts he’d emit when he caught a mistake in her teaching, and wish she’d taken the chance then to shut him up. She knew when she knocked on his door last night to meet him. Clara rested her head in the palm of her hands, defeated, and waited it out until the end of the day.

The shrill sound of the bell was drowned out by the class’s applause, as the Doctor took numerous bows before his audience. The students took an immediate liking to their new friend, secretly but unanimously agreeing that any class where without their teachers incessant droll was their favorite class. The Doctor received high fives from the kids, who practically dove over each other to exit and go into the evening. 

“Did you have fun?”

The Doctor swiveled in his tracks towards Clara, who stood with her thin arms crossed and with one of those expressions where the wearer tries to look disinterested but comes off overwhelmingly frustrated. He’d forgotten all about her. 

“You could say so. I bet that was the most discussion you’ve seen all school year, huh?” He joked, smiling cheerfully at his own joke. Clara scoffed and began removing the chalk from the edge of the board. 

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“What?”

“Do you think. This is. A Joke?” She repeated.

The Doctor smiled again, cautiously this time, “They seemed so bored when I came in. I don’t think anything is a joke...I was just...having some fun with them...”

“Oh, so we like fun now! We barely ever smile and we don’t like to shake hands but we _love_ _fun now_.” Her voice was heavily tinged with hostility.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Have I upset y-”

“Have you upset me?! You’ve turned my classroom into some sort of exhibition.” Clara practically spat the words, “They don’t like me! I’ve been trying to connect with these...with these acne-riddled  _ ass _ holes and you just waltz in here and suddenly it’s like they’ve been visited by Santa Claus!” Her voice increased in volume with every word, and she could practically feel the ears of the staff next door pressed against the wall. 

The Doctor backed up defensively, “That’s an odd comparison, they don’t even believe in Sant-”

“No! No no no  _ no _ , that’s not to point and you know it! It’s not fair! You’ve made a mockery of me in front of my flatmate and now my  _ students _ and neither of them ever took me seriously in the first place. You think I’m a joke.”

“I apologized for that earlier, and I also said I don’t think you’re a joke. I wouldn’t know a joke if it came and kicked my ass.” His heavyset brows furrowed, “Why are you so upset? You can’t be right all the time, Clara.”

“Because! Because….because this is my job! I worked hard to get here!” Clara slammed the chalk onto her desk, sending white particles flying everywhere. “I’m right if I want to be!”

“Well,” he dusted some of the chalk from his coat sleeve, “I hope you don’t live by that.”

“I do!”

As she stared down the Doctor, Clara could feel the heat of her blood rushing up to her face. Both were apologetic, yet both thought they were clearly in the right, and both were unable to admit it. Then finally, the Doctor raised a finger, earning a perplexed look from Clara. He slowly backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. Clara watched the door in reticent anticipation, unsure of whether she was angrier at his sanctimonious way of speaking or his eccentric, unexplainable behavior. What he was doing or trying to say exactly, she didn’t know--nor did she want to. If this was his way of leaving, so be it. Good riddance.

The entrance reopened, and in walked the Doctor. He approached her in long, sure strides and extended a hand towards her.

“I thought you didn’t do handshakes.”

He cleared his voice, “Hello, my name is the Doctor. I am from Scotland. I am your shadow. It is very nice to meet you.”

It took Clara a moment to catch on. He was starting over. Their meetings have been full of such angst and contempt, mostly on Clara’s part, that he was taking the opportunity to refresh with a clean slate. For her sake. 

She shook his hand. 

Clara hastily picked up the eraser and began scrubbing at the board, anxious for anything to distract her from how embarrassed she was--that he had been the one to make up with her first, and she could only imagine how childish he thought she was. 

“So, Ms. Oswald.” The Doctor settled back into his seat at the rear, but his focus never faltered from the woman standing in front. “You know about me, now tell me about yourself.”

“...About me?”

“No, the other Clara.”

She set the eraser down and wrung her hands, subconsciously. Was he serious? Trying to initiate this kind of conversation with her, after everything she’d said, what she’d accused him off. Clara was grateful, though. The rest of his internship under her could’ve been absolute hell/

“My name…is Clara Oswald. I was born in November, but I’ve never considered myself to be much of a Sagittarius. I love reading, and thus now I’m here. An English teacher.”

She inhaled deeply. The two exchanged slight glances in the quiet that passed between them. 

“So, Charles Dickens, huh? A Science teacher playing cards with Dickens. That’s a bit hard to believe. As well as the fact that he died in the 1870’s and you don’t look a day over fifty.” 

He positioned himself towards the window, looking out at the traffic below. “Yeah, well, he always played dirty.”

“Or maybe you were just bad.”

He chuckled, and so did she. 

“What about you? What do you do in your free time?”

“Photography, mostly. I met my flatmate, Amy, in college because we were majoring in travel photography together. I wanted to make it a career until I switched majors after a completely botched and exhausting trial shoot. Now I just do it for fun.”

At this, The Doctor raised his eyebrows, “You’ve never struck me as a person so interested in the world.”

“My mother…my mother would tell me her travel stories. They were so adventurous, and I could always tell she wanted nothing more than to do it again.” 

“What stopped her?”

“She had to raise me.” Clara could feel tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. She grabbed the eraser again. “I tried so hard to succeed in it so she’d be proud of me. I still can’t believe I bowed out so quickly. She was the first person I wanted to come to for advice before I decided to switch to an English degree.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“She uh- she died before I could. I know she would’ve been happy, though. She would’ve supported anything I did.”

Clara didn’t know she was crying until she felt the tears on her palm. She didn’t care much that she was crying, and grew intent on counting the drops as it hit-- _ one, two three _ \--in an erratic pattern of their own. A strange measure for the passage of time between her story and the pause that followed. 

“A peace-parted soul.” The Doctor spoke absent-mindedly. 

Clara wiped at her eyes, “Is quoting Shakespeare supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, and he was. 

“It’s fine. It worked.” She teased, and it did. 

Sensing that he was no longer quite welcome to engage in such intimate memories, the Doctor stood to leave. But not without offering Clara one last handshake. 

To which she happily obliged. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we all know this entire chapter was leading up to that title drop

**Author's Note:**

> and with this, marks the end of my 1-year writing hiatus. it's wonderful to be back, guys.


End file.
